V for Views

I am a sucker for interesting views of cities and towns I visit. From atop observatories and castles and hills, cities look like lego sets, with toy houses, little specks of people and moving wagons in the backdrop of sun and the clouds. From other places, it is fascinating to catch the fast pace of the city, from ferries and trains and coastlines.

These are some of my favourites:

Prague: A quaint little town with red rooftops and a greenish castle amidst it from atop Petrin hill's observatory tower

Sydney: The view from inside the Sydney Opera House onto the Bay

Ljubljana: A quaint little village, idyllic in every sense of the word, as viewed from the Predjama castle

Hong Kong: New Year's Eve, from the Star Ferry, onto Hong Kong CBD

Bosnia and Herzegovina: While traveling by bus from Split to Dubrovnik in Croatia, the roads pass through a small patch of Bosnia in between (with passport check points included)

Dubai: The very famed musical fountain inside the Dubai Mall, where one can lose many hours without spending any money

Macau: A busy street filled with holiday shoppers on New Year's

Udaipur: The entire City Palace, as viewed from Lake Pichola

Mumbai: My most fav, Mumbai during monsoons

Mumbai: Gateway of India, viewed from the top floors of the Taj Mahal hotel

P. S. This post is the twenty second in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

U for Useless

I am a great fit for Bombay. I have major OCD that extends beyond just arranging things in order and putting 'em in their place. I hate clutter, am always on the lookout for throwing away items that are not useful. V is the polar opposite. He can never really make up his mind about whether to keep or discard anything, which means we have piles and piles of stuff that may-potentially-be-partially-perhaps-useful some day, things I think should walk out on their own into the garbage bin across the road right this minute. 

We had an incident once that made me realise how real the struggle is. This was Prague in 2015. We had trekked too much (by my standards) up a smallish hill and the sole of one of my shoes gave away. We managed to come down, hunt up a shoe shop before closing time (do you know they start closing at 8pm :O) and found a brilliant pair as replacement. I immediately wore the replacement, packed the old ones into the new box and tossed the box into the garbage bin nearby. V was flabbergasted. "How could you throw it away?" he asked me, as if I had thrown away an autograph from A R Rahman and not a worn out pair of shoes which it would make little sense to transport all the way back from Prague to India only to... throw it out. I tell you, between us, the struggle is real.

Anyway, despite my OCD and occasional arm twisting of V (figuratively), I still end up with a lot of the following. Hence, my life has become one long decluttering exercise.

• Papers - Bills, credit card receipts, toll bills, the works. Half the reason these stay is because I have conserved my consulting mentality in the hope that someone is going to reimburse these bills some day. The other half is because V keeps them in his wallet and keeps the wallet out of my sight. You may ask why something in his wallet bothers me. Just that, sometimes (most times), his wallet bulges so much that he stuffs them in his jeans pocket, puts the said pair of jeans to wash, and makes sure all my clothes come out glittering in damp credit card receipt paper. 

• Old apparel - Worn out shoes, dresses that have become too small are all stashed away in the far corner of the many lofts in this house in the hope that... in the hope that what?!

• E-commerce boxes - This one is my contribution and I am not proud of it. I ordered a small packet of decorations from Amazon, it got delivered in a large carton fit to hold 20 Maggi packets, and I retained the carton in the hope that it will come handy some day. That's not the only time I have done it. I hate you, e-commerce!

• Obsolete tech products - I have two old kindles, one old tablet, a dead laptop and a phone that no one is willing to exchange for the phones I vie for. And, I have no clue what to do with those. Those are times I know our civilisation is in decline, we will all drown in molten tech hardware someday.

This post has given me new hope. Once this blogging challenge is over, I am going to bounce back to clearing out the junk lying around here. It is too difficult to declutter and de-junk our minds, but surely it must be much easier to declutter the space we live in. No?

P. S. This post is the twenty first in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

M for Miniature

I have a fascination for miniatures. I think all of us who have played with some doll or the other (even a teddy) as a child would, for that matter. More so for me because we have been ardent celebrators of Navratri or the doll festival since I was born. For those not familiar with this festival, go right here. 

A few years back, when I happened to visit Amsterdam's Rijks' Museum, I was fascinated by the collection of miniature doll houses there. Apparently, it was quite a tradition amongst the rich households of yesteryear Amsterdam to commission and design miniature doll houses of their own houses. It was a favourite pastime of the lady of the house. In fact, calling it a pastime seems to trivialize the money, time and energy they put into getting it done - replicating the curtains, carpets, flooring, furniture to the exact fabric, marble and wood used in the actual house. 

Look at this one I caught in Rijks'. Isn't it beautiful?

Very recently, I read this book "The Miniaturist" which is set in seventeenth century Amsterdam, and while the premise borders on a miniature doll house commissioned by the lady of the house, it does eerily get into how whatever is designed for the doll house happens in real life. The miniatures have minds and souls and lives of their own, living on in that little doll house, directing what happens in the real house. Almost!

I have little person in my hand as I type this, and it is fascinating to note how babies are miniature versions of human adults - mini hands and legs, mini mouths and faces, mini mini fingers and toes. But, it is also equally fascinating to think of how they are not miniatures in every other sense of the word - the amount of time, energy and love they consume and absorb is quite unparalleled really!

If I were a theist, I might even call babies miracles. But, since I am not, I will just leave it at calling them babies, absolutely adorably cute miniatures that are infinitely better versions of what human adults corrupt themselves into becoming in the course of a lifetime.

P. S. This post is the thirteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

W for Wanderlust

I was not an aspiring wanderlust growing up. No, I have not covered as many countries or traveled as exotically as many of my friends have. But, of late, I have picked up joy from traveling and have even toyed with the idea of doing a solo trip, this girl here being my latest inspiration. How would it be like, to walk the paved streets of a city alone, traversing the maps, struggling with the local language, figuring out their tram / metro transport, bumping into people I don't know and having a laugh with them.

I have taken a step ahead in the solo thingy, twice in my life, though there are miles to go before I can call myself a solo traveler. 

The first time was at Amsterdam, when I had to take a tram alone in an unknown city for the time, to get to Rijksmuseum. It was my first European museum visit, and by far my best (yeah, even better than the Louvre). The autumn flowers were withering away, winter was setting in, the sky was a dull grey, and all around me was a sparsely populated city walking in dark winter coats and boots. On I went directly to Rijksmuseum, and identified a cafe opposite the museum to settle down for breakfast and hot chocolate. It was as if time had stopped still. There was no one but me, and my kindle, there, in the semi-open door setting, looking out at the museum and the "I Love Amsterdam" structure ahead. I wanted to sit there forever and read my book in peace, but then reminded myself that in order to get full value for the money of my trip to Amsterdam, I needed to get out and explore the place. Collecting an audio guide and a map of the museum, off I went in and in to the museum, eventually spending a good two hours marveling at the creations. Other than some of the most famous paintings housed in there (the Night's Watch is quite breathtaking), the category that caught my eye was the miniature. Miniature doll houses with furnishings and furniture mirroring the real ones (made from the same materials too - teak for teak, silk for silk) were the most beautiful. So were the miniature apothecaries filled with medicine bottles, measurement tubes and some such. After I had exhausted the museum and bought trinkets at the museum shop like a true tourist, I went to another cafe to relive my solitary happiness. After a few minutes there, I was bored of being alone having spent over half a day without talking to anyone. Thankfully, V joined by then, after finishing some urgent work, cooped up in the hotel room (on holiday!).

The second time was more of a real solo day, at Dubrovnik last year. We had estimated more time for Dubrovnik than necessary, and I ended up being alone on the last day, with nothing to do, having explored all sides of the wall, and clicking pictures from down to up to down. After having lunch alone, I decided to do something daring, something I have never done before - take a ferry alone to an island. As I waited for the ferry by the pier, I put my Indian mentality to good use and tried to be as far ahead as possible in the crowd, to get into the ferry early and capture one of the choicest seats. When the ferry arrived, I was the first one to board, and then realised I was the last one to board as well. Everyone else seemed to be waiting for something else, and I had my first truly alone ferry ride, all of 600 metres to Lokrum island. I imagined the island will also be empty, gearing up for the adventure, taking a few ferry selfies, enjoying the breeze of the Adriatic sea. As I alighted, I understood all those enthusiastic tourists had already reached Lokrum to have picnic lunches. Lokrum is a nice small cosy island with a botanical garden and some endangered species for company. I couldn't find any other endangered species but peacocks and peahens, as I went around the island, clicking pictures and trying to capture as much detail as I could in my mind (which wasn't much - it was only a brownish green patch stretching around me on all sides). In the middle of the island was a dilapidated structure, something between a mansion and a castle, though most of the walls and roofs were missing. Imagining all sorts of haunted stories, I walked closer, rubbing my palms in anticipation of the adventure, only to be greeted by a cafe within the structure, and tourists taking picture.s No, there is no escaping selfie sticks anymore. Within half hour, my tour was completed, and I came back to take the last ferry back to Dubrovnik. This time it was massively crowded and I didn't put any fight for the choicest seats, as I knew now from experience that the ride was all of 3 minutes.

Some day, some day, I am hoping to do a solo trip, where I would actually interact with other humans (and not just click pictures with animals and inanimates), and perhaps make a few friends on the way. And who knows, I might take the plunge and do something truly adventurous like parasailing when alone. That would be a 'wanderlustic' trip in the real sense. 

P. S. This post is the twenty third in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

U for Umbrellas

I was born and brought up in Chennai, a city that, in the '90s, did not know the concept of monsoon rains. Also, the weather was only hot, hotter and hottest, and no one around me either used or goaded me into using an umbrella. The closest I have come to encountering the word is in books from centuries back that quaintly refer to parasols carried by ladies’ maids to protect their beloved ladies from the glare of the nonexistent English summer.

My tryst with the umbrellas started in 2008, when I was thrown into the quagmire of the Mumbai monsoons – quagmire, literally and figuratively, though the literal one couldn’t be managed with an umbrella over the head, and rain boots were (are) not really popular. If you have experienced the Mumbai monsoon, you would know that a nice, cute umbrella will be blown away in the first instance, while a large, sturdy, grandfather umbrella would not fit into the already cramped trains, shared taxis and umbrella stands outside office areas.

Anyway, this story isn’t about Bombay’s monsoons and cramped space. I love the city too much to write a 'cribby' post on it!

Despite all the experience we now have with monsoons and umbrellas, and despite packing umbrellas into our outside-India-suitcases every time, we invariably leave those 'brellas behind in hotel rooms. For, our backpacks never have space for them after accommodating the more important travel diaries, maps, iPads and mobile chargers. Thanks to this prioritization, we now have an umbrella each from every country we have been to while sadly, none of these are either fancy looking or cheap, or for that matter functional (too friendly with the wind to do their work like good old umbrellas).

The last international umbrella shop visit we made is the most memorable. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia, walking through the shopping area on our last day there when it started drizzling. Promptly, we walked into the nearest umbrella shop. Only, it turned out to be not so much an umbrella shop as a “quaint shop” housing literary memorabilia. For instance, they had this handbag (rather, a hand box, that would stand like a box when you hang it on your shoulder), which had “Gone with the Wind” on it; an umbrella with Pride and Prejudice; storage cabinets with a myriad of book covers printed on them. I would have loved to buy and transport the entire shop back home. Then, I halted and checked the price on the first handbag with the GWTW on it. It was priced at 200 Euros, Made in Italy.

Since I could not swish my imaginary magic wand to disapparate myself and the shop from there without paying a penny, I left empty handed, but not before wondering how life does come full circles many times – from books that referenced umbrellas and parasols, to umbrellas with book covers printed on them. 

P. S. This post is the twenty first in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

P for Paris

Well, that's back to back travel posts right here, and I could remember nothing but Paris when P stared out from my desktop back at me this morning.

Paris happened a couple of years back, a fall out of a work trip to Amsterdam. And, I have sworn to myself I will settle down in Paris some day.

What I love most about Paris is that mix of hustle and bustle of daily life with culture and architecture peppered across the city. It is as if the Parisians know that bustle is important, but they think they may as well build a cathedral or citadel or some kind of ornamental building, while on their way to living their busy bee existence. All the press I had read about Paris had made me ready myself for a city where people didn't work round the clock, demanded wages for less work, and whiled away their time otherwise. I realised my naivety and foolishness as I stepped into the Garu de Nord station. There were the people, running about their daily tasks, and it only reminded me of our very own Churchgate or VT stations on a normal day. 

I had really made the trip only for the Louvre, having read so much about the beauty of the Venus De Milo and the Monalisa. Oh, not just that, Dan Brown has imagined and created such a parallel Universe about the Louvre that I really thought I might find clues to secret passages leading me to the Holy Grail. Frankly, the Louvre was strictly ok. It is just too huge and so we had to spend half hour planning and marking out things we really didn't want to see. Trust me, no matter how much you may love museums and art, there is only so much sugar you can handle in a day!

Palace of Versailles was a one day affair. Opulence and extravagance were of course in the face but it wasn't only the opulence of the gilt-rimmed palace and the insides ripe with beautiful furniture, libraries of books and drapes from an era gone past. For me, the opulence actually came through in the large palace gardens, lush green and full of life, despite those early days of winter. The palace grounds stretch for miles around the palace and it is easy to get lost in them, sitting and writing reams and reams of poetry. 

My most favorite memory from Paris though is an unplanned one. We had planned out our days for all the touristy stuff like Eiffel, Versailles, Louvre, Notre Dame etc. A colleague I met in Amsterdam added one more to my list saying, no less in her Italian accent, "It is so romantic! You should not miss it." As a result, one evening found us trudging up a short hill towards Montmartre, that houses the Basilica. Montmartre is an idyllic village up a hill, resplendent with white walled houses and a cafe alternating every house. The lanes are filled with artistes ready with pencils, waiting to draw pictures of you with the Basilica for backdrop. The Basilica itself is huge and beautiful. But, what's most alluring is the life within those cafes. I do not know whether it was the time of the day or the day of the week or whether this is how Montmartre is every single day of every single week. But, there was some beautiful live music coming out of every cafe, mixed with the tinkles of laughter. We finally found one which had some vegetarian options, but we weren't disappointed otherwise. Coupled with the live music was a happy family of father, mother, daughter and grandparents, all singing along with the music and letting themselves go.

Was I a tad jealous? I was, I was. But, I was also happy to experience pure joy, a memory that a visit to no museum can replace.

P. S. This post is the sixteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

O for Operas

Do you know how the inside of an opera hall looks? Exactly like how they show it out there in 'Pretty Woman'.And, I always thought that scene was a figment of the imagination of a very creative art director!

My first (and only) tryst with operas came about in Prague mid last year on the first leg of our phenomenally lovely trip to Eastern Europe. True to the backpacker in us, we were meandering around Prague with no goal or objective, no plan in place, and a by-then, literally beaten to death, hard copy map. 

We had just then finished a long walk in the hot sun, got into a cafe by the banks of the river to quench our thirst only to be greeted by the spectacle of fully drunk nude young men jumping into the river as a dare to each other(many a picture was being taken, they must have had a terrible sight greeting them when they got sober), and then got drenched in some unsolicited rain forcing us to buy a couple of expensive umbrellas that blew away in the wind. That is when we came across that counter, selling tickets to an opera that evening.

Didn't we come to Prague just to see the opera, we reasoned to ourselves, as we tried hard to identify the cheapest tickets possible. Yes, luck and luck, and there we were, at the theater, shabbily dressed backpackers getting into line behind tuxedo-sporting, ball-gown wearing patrons of the opera. We did think we would be denied entry, but then, no one cared and we were inside in no time, perched on some very uncomfortable high seats in one of the last rows of a ginormous opera hall, waiting for the show to begin. The seats were nothing like the private seating from Pretty Woman, but the view was perfect.

Macbeth, the play, began. We had missed the minor point that the play was in Italian when we bought the tickets, but music has no language. No? The show did have subtitles in English and really, it didn't matter. Known language or unknown, it was extremely boring, and dragged on with people in black, blacker and blackest attires panning out some really soul-stirring music. There is only so much sorrow, grief and guilt that one can take sitting in the audience.

By half time, we were nodding off, and we decided to make a dash for the exit. For, we had come for the experience, and we had got the experience we wanted. Who cares about sitting through the end of the show?

Last month, a friend was advising me that the opera is a must do when I plan a trip to Italy next. I politely nodded, while making a mental note to steer clear of at least 5km radius around the opera area in Italy, wherever that is.

P. S. This post is the fifteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.